


Soldier

by bluemoodblue



Series: 120 Writing Challenge [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Soldiers, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3663747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoodblue/pseuds/bluemoodblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthony James Crowley began his life in times of peace. His world was sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, studiously not paying attention in class, and staring at the neighbor's new automobile.</p><p>He grew up - much too fast - in the midst of a war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to write more, I'm working on completing a writing challenge (credit for which goes to ShibaAyame on Deviantart). These fics are in no particular order and unconnected unless otherwise specified; I'm putting them together as a series to keep the madness organized. ^_^
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Anthony James Crowley began his life in times of peace. His world was sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, studiously not paying attention in class, and staring at the neighbor's new automobile.

He grew up - much too fast - in the midst of a war.

The exact moment didn't matter. There were thousands of moments to choose from, the first time his bullet connected with another soldier, the first time he was close enough that he saw the light die in someone's eyes, burning cities and fields scattered with bodies, all vying for a place as the moment Anthony's childhood ended.

Personally, he thought it might have been when he started telling people to call him Crowley. It seemed appropriate to use his last name, when he had a sense that he'd left a boy named Anthony behind at home, in a different time.

The world was broken into pieces, and Crowley could see underneath and inside. At it's core, it was ugly. The world was not made the way he'd always assumed it to be. The whole of it was pointless; there was so much destruction everywhere, touching everything, reaching out and grasping at and pulling everything down into the earth in flames.

Bitterness should have overwhelmed him, and might have given a moment of opportunity, but he was too tired. The heated pessimism faded under waves of exhaustion, temporarily beaten into submission by marching and meager rations. He would hate the reality of war and the senseless death surrounding him when there was time to spare and energy for that much feeling.

Crowley was busy being exhausted, his troop in the countryside outside of some godforsaken town, when he heard whistling. It wasn't the ringing that came after a day of close exposure to gunfire and explosions - the warbling sound carried something of a tune. He glanced up and saw an unfamiliar soldier wandering around the outskirts of camp, his bright gold hair instantly visible across the short distance. Their eyes met for half a second and Crowley quickly looked back down at the grass in front of him. The damage had already been done, though, and he heard the strange soldier walk over and sit down next to him.

"It's chaos closer to camp, with that many people," the stranger told Crowley, another glance revealing a smile that belied the dirt and blood on the soldier's face. "It's nice to see some new faces, I guess, but two troops combined can make a lot of noise."

Crowley didn't dignify the small talk with a response. His new friend, it seemed, was relentless.

"I'm Aziraphale," the stranger said, holding out his hand. At Crowley's skeptical expression, he chuckled. "My mom. Very religious, and stubborn enough to get away with whatever she wants."

If Crowley ignored him long enough, that smile would die out awkwardly and he would leave Crowley alone, which was exactly what Crowley should want because he didn't come here to make lasting friendships. He replied, because he never made wise decisions.

"An angel on the battlefield," Crowley muttered. "Could be a good omen."

"That would be lovely. It would work out very well for me, I would imagine."

And an angel might be what the war needed, Crowley mused. "I'm Crowley," was all he said aloud, taking Aziraphale's hand.

Crowley's new friend was never very far away. It didn't seem to matter how often Crowley complained or insulted the other soldier, Aziraphale always sought him out. Likewise, Crowley endured optimism and complaints in equal measure, never as annoyed by the company as he thought he would be.

"Have we stumbled across the muddiest patch of Europe known to man, or is it just that the mud has reached my eyes now and it's all that I can see?"

Crowley sniggered. "What's wrong, angel, worried you're going to ruin your shoes?"

"This whole war has ruined the countryside for me. No more leisurely walks down a quiet rode, no thank you, I shall be perfectly content with an armchair, a cup of tea, and a book."

"Probably for the best. As soon as this war is over, I'm buying an automobile with all of the money people will give me for being a war hero, and I'd hate to run you down accidentally when you get in the way."

Aziraphale paused, and the look of horror on his face when Crowley turned back was glorious. "Heavens. You, in one of those contraptions. Poor, innocent pedestrians, thinking it's safe to venture out and being slaughtered."

Crowley grinned. "Add another armchair to your plan and cover for me when the police question you about a series of hit-and-runs, and I'll drive you to the bookstore every so often."

Aziraphale sighed in exasperation, but his smile was as good as a handshake.

The thing about Aziraphale though, the thing was that Aziraphale was a good person. As much a soldier as any of them, a frighteningly good shot actually, but a good person. A good person with a lot of faith in people, and that scared Crowley a little bit.

"I just think people are good, at their core. That there's a purpose to all of this."

"All of this?" Crowley gestured to their surroundings. They were in camp, but the implication of the carnage of worse nights was clear.

Aziraphale faltered. "If there is a greater purpose in war, I admit that I do not know it." He looked down at his hands, which carried a gun daily, a gun which saw frequent use. "But people, individuals, there's goodness there, goodness and purpose. Surely."

"Ignorance is bliss, angel," Crowley replied. "Stay away from the apple trees." Aziraphale smiled at him thinly.

And war would get in the way again, like it always seemed to. And Aziraphale would go out and be a good shot, a good soldier. And he would leave the battlefield shaking, staring at nothing and unreachable.

And Crowley would wonder, again, how long it would take the war to break his friend.

The closest it came, Crowley thought, was in front of the bookstore, in a town that he didn't remember the name of. The bookstore had been burning.

Everything was burning - homes and churches and people. There was screaming and smoke everywhere Crowley turned, and it didn't seem like there would be a tomorrow or as if there was anywhere else in the world that was not turning to ash.

He'd lost Aziraphale somewhere in the chaos, and with every street he turned down, he grew more frantic. It was so hard to see through all of the smoke.

"Aziraphale!" His shouting was barely louder than the screaming all around him. "Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale was standing in front of what used to be a bookstore, just watching in horror as the flames broke through the windows and reached higher along the building.

"Aziraphale, we have to go. Angel, come on, it isn't safe here." Aziraphale didn't answer, and he didn't respond when Crowley took his hand. Only when Crowley reached out and turned his friend's face to his and away from the flames did Aziraphale go with him.

Hours later, Crowley understood why it was the bookstore that had gotten under Aziraphale's skin. "We keep talking about when the war ends as though it's inevitable," Aziraphale muttered, an unusual undercurrent of bitterness in his voice. "As though there's going to be anything left by the end of it. No bookstores to drive to in fancy automobiles."

There were several days of uneasy silence. Then, one morning, Aziraphale approached Crowley from behind and snuck a daisy behind his ear.

"Flowers grow back," he said in response to Crowley's questioning expression. "It might be a little early to give the world up for lost." And Crowley marveled, once again, that Aziraphale somehow endured.

They tailed after each other. They kept each other in sight as well as they could, even on the battlefield when such a thing was practically impossible. They told each other as much about each other as they could, years of a lifetime in soft conversations at night: family and who they used to be, and who they thought they were now, hopes, fears, ambitions, the stories that their mothers told them before bed in another life, when they were small. They made plans, a cottage by the sea together and damn anyone who didn't understand, damn anyone who thought it strange or unnatural, because there was too much ugliness all around them to ignore beauty where it could still be found.

"What are the chances," Crowley asked one night, bones sinking into the earth with exhaustion, "What are the chances that we would meet here and now? What are the chances that we would find each other like this?"

"Inevitable," Aziraphale whispered in reply, "Ineffable." He paused. "We were always going to meet, I think. I feel like we've met already." He caught a glance of Crowley's smile, and smiled in response. "Is that strange?"

"No. I think you're right," Crowley answered, reaching for the angel's hand.

Crowley wasn't ready. It wasn't something that a person could be ready for.

They were on the battlefield. Everything was smoke and gunfire, chaos, confusion and explosions. The world was reduced to survival. Crowley lost sight of Aziraphale.

There was an explosion somewhere on his right. It rocked the earth, throwing Crowley from his feet. When he got up again, sweeping his surroundings for safer cover, he saw something gold on the ground. Golden curls stuck in the mud, instantly familiar.

He ran across the pitfalls and the craters of the hellscape, knowing he wasn't running fast enough.

Aziraphale was facedown in the mud. Crowley struggled to turn him over, something in the back of his mind shouting that something was not right, the familiar body was lopsided, his right arm...

He was still, and he was cold. Crowley wiped the mud from Aziraphale's face, but it didn't matter - Aziraphale's eyes were glassy. They were empty.

Crowley's scream was drowned out by the mortars whistling through the air and making impact.

~~~

Crowley felt so tired, bled dry even though he'd left the battlefield with minimal injuries. He couldn't stop himself from looking for a familiar presence that he knew he wouldn't find. Sometimes he looked for daisies, but there was nothing to be found on the muddy road. Everything was crushed underfoot.

He'd been right, he realized. The war had broken Aziraphale. And even though flowers came back, people didn't.

Crowley survived, somehow, much longer than he expected to. There were near-misses and injuries that could have - probably should have - been much worse. So he continued, when he didn't want to, when he felt like couldn't anymore. He didn't know if he believed in people or purpose, but he'd believed in one person, and that person wouldn't want him to give the world up for lost yet.

He carried on through the silence every night, and the exhaustion, until the moment a small bit of lead tore through him.

Crowley fell to his knees. The fighting raged on around him, barely a glance spared in his direction, but he was no longer a part of it. He felt as if he were alone, all movement and sound stopped.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm so tired." And a voice might have told him to rest, but maybe it didn't.

And there was no one there to see a figure with golden curls and soft, downy wings, shielding a tired soldier as he lay down to sleep.


End file.
